


Trembling hands

by little_fella (na_shao)



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Blood, M/M, War, World War I, graphic depiction of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-07 01:00:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17950574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/na_shao/pseuds/little_fella
Summary: Smoke pierces his eyes, making tears try to crawl out into the open while dread runs cold in his veins.“You triple fucker,” Theseus sobs while trying to examine the wound, and swears under his breath, “stop moving! I can’t— I can’t do it—”





	Trembling hands

**Author's Note:**

> Reposting my fanfictions from tumblr here.

Smoke pierces his eyes, making tears try to crawl out into the open while dread runs cold in his veins.

“You triple  _fucker_ ,” Theseus sobs while trying to examine the wound, and swears under his breath, “stop moving! I can’t—  _I can’t do it—_ ”

“You—” Percival groans under the pressure of the redhead’s hands on his stomach before licking his lips, tongue raspy and dry as parchment paper and  _fuck, is he back in the office now, parchment paper, parchment paper—_  “Thes, calm— calm down, you can— you  _can_  and you  _will_  heal me.”

Shrapnel in there. Suddenly it feels like too much; looking at the battlefield around them, at Percival’s pale face, at his forehead painted red like a fucking Monet, how messed up this all is.

“ _Fuck!_  Perce! I can’t—”

Theseus is breathing far too fast, ragged at the edges, holding back the swirl of ice kissing his lips—

The older man’s voice breaks through the dust from the trenches.

“Theseus—  _now._ ”

Sometime in between painful breaths, the red-haired man keeps gnawing at his cracked, crimson nails until the tremors are under basic control; prods at the wound, removes the whole thing, mends the splintered veins and shattered arteries, a flow of magic swirling around the wounds.

He  _manages._

He sews up the gash with trembling hands, stained with wet, running blood, stitches irregular and imprecise, but enough to make the wound hold up. Enough.  _Enough._

“See, you are able—” but blood gushes out of Percival’s mouth quickly before he can finish his sentence.

“ _Don’t belittle me and don’t bloody speak,_ ” Theseus snarls as he tightens a stitch particularly harshly with the tip of his wand. “ _Worried sick_ about your sorry arse—”

It takes all of Percival’s strength to reach out for Theseus’ neck and pull him down to him for a quick, messy kiss— more of a snap of lips, hungry and impatient and desperate, lipstick made out of blood and mascara out of burnt flesh that runs along the seams of their eyelids.

Fools in love, the both of them.

“It’s not something I do, dying,” Percival manages to mumble weakly against his lips, and the way the blood drains from his roughly cut cheeks only frightens Theseus more.

The shades are fading in his mind;  _shut the door, count to four._

It is their first kiss, and yet feels like the last one.


End file.
